


Cold Snap

by runningondreams



Category: Marvel 1872
Genre: Alcohol, Blizzards & Snowstorms, Established Relationship, First Aid, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-26 13:44:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17746973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runningondreams/pseuds/runningondreams
Summary: When Stark doesn’t make it back to Timely before the first snow, Steve goes looking.





	Cold Snap

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fic in the Flower Chain of the 2019 Captain America-Iron Man Remix Relay event. It was remixed into another 1872 fic, [Storm Coming In (Trying His Best Remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17486567) by Neverever. Go, read, enjoy tracing the daisy chain!
> 
> * * *

When Tony Stark hasn’t returned to Timely by the first frost, Steve tells himself the man just got distracted. Stark does that with some frequency, often at the least convenient moments. He’s probably found a new silver deposit, or had to stop and re-shoe a mule. He’s fine. A day or two or even three isn’t cause for concern, no matter what he’d told Steve of his plans.

He’s fine.

“He’s an idiot,” Bucky says on the second morning. “The rate the weather turns around here? He should’ve left that canyon a week ago with the rest of the miners. This sort of lally-gagging about is just courting trouble.”

Steve doesn’t argue. He spends his day helping batten down shutters and tar gaps in the walls of summer-built homes around town. Then he lays in cordwood for his lodging, and the jail, and old Mrs. Parker. He splits a few extra logs to take by the blacksmith’s, just in case, but the forge and house are still deserted, the fires long cold. He sets the stack by the back door anyway.

On the third day, when clouds start massing in the north and the wind picks up, he packs his usual travel kit and then fills out his saddlebags with some extra supplies: Wool blankets and socks; an extra pair of rabbit-fur mittens; four canteens of water; a cooking pot; some dried fruit and smoked fish and venison jerky; a small collection of tinder. He wraps matches and two flares in wax paper and borrows Dr. Banner’s lighter.

Bucky tracks him down as he’s saddling Liberty, just as the mid-morning sun slips behind a wispy gray cloud.

“Stark’s a grown man, you know,” he says. “He’s gotten himself this far, he can get himself the rest of the way.”

Steve cinches down the belly band and tugs on the stirrup experimentally. The saddle and blanket hold steady. Liberty snorts at him. He checks the belly band again. 

“Going out there just puts _you_ at risk, you know that right? No one in their right mind rides into a storm like that.”

“I’m sure you’ll take good care of the town while I’m gone,” Steve says. He secures his saddlebags, then takes the reins from the hitching post and swings up onto Liberty’s back. 

“Hey!” Bucky steps forward and grabs at the bridle. Liberty sidles sideways and Bucky pets her nose on automatic, still glaring up at Steve.

“If that storm hits, you could _both_ die. You think Timely can get by without a Sheriff _and_ a blacksmith?”

Steve sighs. 

“I’m not going to die, Buck. More than likely I’ll meet him somewhere on the way.”

“If you really believed that you wouldn’t be going,” Bucky insists.

He’s not wrong, but Steve’s not quite able to talk about the uneasy feeling in his gut, or the nagging, too-vivid nightmares he’d had the night before. If he finds Tony blithely beavering away on some new project and totally ignorant of the idea that anyone might worry for him, Steve will be more than a little annoyed. He just can’t convince himself that’s what’s going to happen.

“It’ll be fine, Buck,” he says. “I’ll be back soon. A few days at most.”

“You better.” Bucky scowls, mutinous, but he lets go of the bridle. Steve takes a moment to wrap his scarf more securely around his face and resettle his hat, and then urges Liberty into a brisk trot towards the mines.

***

As it turns out, Steve does find Tony a few miles out along the road. On foot. Walking unsteadily. Just a darker patch of shadow against the dimming landscape in his dusty wool coat. There’s no sign of his horse or the mule train he’d set out with a month and a half ago. Steve mostly recognizes him by his hat: the red band is particularly distinctive.

“Stark?” He reins Liberty in, slowing to a walk as they approach. 

“Sheriff.” Tony’s mouth twitches in an approximation of a smile. “Sorry I’m late.”

Steve frowns, looking him over. “What happened?”

Tony looks up at him, and then back along the road behind.

“Bandits.” His shoulders slump and he winces. “Got the drop on me in Red River Pass. Took the mules and Jo and left me for dead.” He gestures at his left side vaguely. “I was pretty convincing.”

Steve is down off his horse and inspecting Tony’s side in an instant. There’s a ragged hole in the fabric near his left shoulder. He unbuttons the coat and the jacket beneath it and twitches both aside. The waistcoat and shirt underneath are stained and sticky with blood. There’s no exit wound. Small caliber, nothing like the soft lead shot that destroyed so many limbs on the battlefield, thank God, but it’ll still need to be cleaned and bandaged. The single nod toward medical care Tony’s made is to shove a handkerchief into the wound. And he’s been walking for at least two miles now.

“Listen, Steve—”

“Aren’t you the one who just two months ago made _me_ promise not to get shot?”

“Look, I know—”

“Didn’t you spend three days trying to convince me to come with you because the greatest threat we’d face out there was twisting an ankle?”

“I may have exaggerated, but I’ve never even _heard_ of—”

“Get on the horse.”

“I might need some help with that,” Tony admits. The way he’s standing, Steve doesn’t doubt it. It’s not just the bullet wound, Tony’s probably at least bruised in a few other places. He’s favoring his whole left side, and especially his wrist. Steve would bet that’s the side he hit when he fell off his horse. And he’s shivering slightly.

He shouldn’t be riding at all, and Doc Banner will likely fuss about that but it’s not as though they have much choice. The clouds are rolling in fast now, dark and brooding, and the rising wind bears the smell of snow. There’s no way they can make it back to Timely at a walking pace before the storm catches them up.

“What’s wrong with your wrist?” he asks, gruff.

“Sprain, I think. I hope.”

Steve nods and retrieves the blankets. He cuts a strip off one and fashions a make-shift sling for Tony’s arm, then wraps both layers of wool around Tony’s shoulders and ties them in place with a length of twine. He gives him the gloves and sticks the socks down his collar for extra warmth. When Tony’s as bundled up as he’s going to get, Steve lets Liberty snuffle over him for a moment; she lips at the blanket and Tony pets her with his good hand. She’s one of the calmer horses Steve’s ridden, but this is a new thing they’re doing and the more comfortable she is going in, the better. When she’s satisfied her curiosity and determined Tony isn’t hiding any food about his person, Steve turns her to a good mounting angle. He kneels down in the cold mud and offers his linked hands as a foothold.

Tony gives him a look but doesn’t protest. When he’s settled and Liberty has adjusted, Steve swings into the saddle behind him and takes the reins.

It’s not a comfortable ride. Steve’s saddle isn’t made for two, and they can’t move too quickly without stressing Liberty and Tony both. Even a gentle trot jostles Tony painfully, and they have to stop once so he can get down and be sick. By the time they reach Timely’s outskirts, snow is blowing around them, thick and heavy enough to turn most of the buildings to faint shapes in the distance. Steve can feel Tony shivering against his chest. 

He gives up on the idea of fetching Doc Banner and turns toward the smithy. Tony needs shelter and warmth, as soon as possible. His won’t be the first bullet wound Steve’s treated, either. They’ll get through somehow.

The snow envelopes them. Every few steps Steve has to push aside nagging doubts that he chose the right direction and the growing fear that they’ve missed the forge, and the house and the small stable Tony keeps, and they’ll just be going on into the open plain until they’re too far to turn back and too lost to have a hope of finding the town again. 

The snow stacks higher, and Liberty slows to a crawl of a walk. He slips off her back and leads her. If the blizzard keeps up, he won’t be surprised to find they’re snowed in in the morning. If they get to see the morning. 

There’s a dark shape up ahead, and Steve adjusts their course slightly to head toward it. After another timeless period of trudging ahead through ankle-deep drifts, it’s a relief to be able to make out familiar swooping eaves and a looming chimney. He finds Tony’s hitching post mostly by accident—almost runs into it, in fact—and the iron detailing is such a welcome sight he almost laughs. He loops the reins around it to stop Liberty wandering off and gives Tony a hand getting down. 

Despite the double layer of blankets over his coat, Tony’s teeth are chattering.

“Think you can walk?” Steve asks. Tony just nods and pushes past him to the front steps and the door. Steve takes the opportunity to switch Liberty’s bridle for a halter and hook her feed bag over her ears. He leaves her with the promise of a warm stable as soon as Tony’s settled.

Tony’s still standing on the doorstep, staring out at the storm.

“What’s wrong?” He thinks maybe Tony’s lost his key, maybe he’s had trouble working the lock, but no. The door is slightly open, wind and snow and cold blowing inside.

Tony looks at him, then back out at the blur of snow that’s all either of them can see.

“I would’ve died out there,” he says. “If you hadn’t found me I …”

Steve kicks snow off his boots and nudges Tony gently forward. 

“Let’s get you inside,” he says.

“You should go home before you’re snowed in here,” Tony protests.

“I’m not leaving you alone with a bullet wound, Stark,” Steve says. “Inside.”

It only takes about ten minutes to get Tony situated, according to the clock in the main room, but it’s ten minutes in which Tony makes it increasingly obvious that he’s in no state to care for himself. He moves like an automaton, halting and staring, and it’s Steve who has to brush the snow from his shoulders and remove the wet outer blanket and lead him to his single, overstuffed armchair. Steve who gets the fire going and digs out a few glasses and two bottles from Tony’s supply of whiskey and vodka. The whiskey he pours a measure of and presses into Tony’s hand. The vodka he sets aside for first aid applications. 

There’s no hope of reaching the well now, but he fills the kettle and two buckets with snow and sets them all by the fire. Then he retrieves two coils of rope from the back door and ties them together.

Tony’s still staring at his drink, unmoving.

“Stark.” Steve stoops to meet Tony’s eyes and presses the back of his hand to his forehead. Maybe a bit of a fever. His eyes are a little glassy, too. “I need you to hang on,” Steve tells him. “Got it? Drink up.”

Tony blinks at him.

“I think I might be hallucinating,” he says. “Did you just _tell me_ to drink?”

“You’ll need it. I’m taking Liberty to the stable and then I’ll see to your wound.”

“Ah. Right.” Tony looks back to the glass. He takes a shaky sip. “The stable’s to the left,” he reminds Steve. “Don’t take too long, Sheriff.”

“I’ll be back soon,” Steve reassures him. There is no other option. He squeezes Tony’s uninjured shoulder for good measure, pulls his gloves on and heads back outside.

The wind tears at his face, ice pelting his cheeks. He can hardly see Liberty, just a few feet away, and he stumbles on his way to her and almost falls. He ties one end of the rope to the hitching post. Double checks it. Triple checks. If it comes loose he’ll never find his way back in all this. Then he takes Liberty’s lead and guides her away. To the left.

The walk to the stables is more of a slog, one heavy step after another, letting the rope trail out behind him. The cold snatches his breath away. He’s pretty sure ice forms on his eyelashes. But they make it, and the close warmth of clean straw and animal musk is like coming up to breathe after a long time under water. Jarvis has been taking good care of Tony’s goats and chickens in his absence, and the stable is well-stocked for the winter. Steve leads Liberty to an empty stall and sets about removing the saddle, halter and blanket and rubbing her down and checking her hooves. When he’s as sure as he can be that she’ll suffer no ill effects from their trip he drapes a dry blanket over her and fills the water and hay troughs. There are a few eggs in the roosting loft, and Steve wraps them carefully in his scarf and secures them under his coat for the trip back. They’ll be good additions to the scant dry supplies and preserves in Tony’s pantry.

He triple checks the loop of rope around the stable door handle and starts back, keeping one hand on the line as a guide. He’s out of breath when he reaches the steps again. Every muscle complains of stiffness and protests the continued movement. He wants nothing more than to lie down in a warm bed and sleep, but there’s work to be done yet, and he’s the only one who can do most of it.

Tony’s still sitting in the chair Steve left him in, staring at the fire. He has moved, though; the kettle is hanging over the fire now, and the chair is facing the front door instead of the back wall, and he’s taken off his boots and made himself a hot mug of what smells like willow bark tea. 

The look of relief on his face when Steve steps back inside is something to think about, maybe. Something to talk about, if they ever really talk about the things they do behind closed doors. 

“Feeling better?” Steve asks, hanging up his wet things by the door and unlacing his boots with half-frozen fingers.

“A bit.” Tony shivers, even in the heat of the hearth. His eyes don’t look any better either. “I found the kit Bruce left, last time I had to call him out for a forge accident. Thought it might help.” He nods to a small table he’s moved up beside the chair. There’s a metal tray, a roll of cotton bandages, and a collection of small metal tools that gleam in the firelight. The whiskey glass is empty beside it.

“Does that mean you’re ready?” Steve asks. He finds a bowl for the eggs and sets them on the kitchen table, and takes a moment to eat a small handful of smoked fish and wash down some water. Running himself into a fever too won’t help either of them.

Tony’s left hand twitches and he grimaces. Steve follows his eyes to the empty glass. He reaches for the bottle and is ready to pour another measure when Tony shakes his head.

“I’m ready whenever you are. Whatever you need to do.”

“No more medicine?” Steve confirms, holding up the whiskey. Tony shakes his head.

The movement’s a little wobbly. 

“I don’t need it.” Tony swallows; he looks faintly nauseous. “And I don’t think it mixes well with Bruce’s fever tea.” 

Steve nods. “Let’s get this over with then.”

He helps Tony out of his coat, jacket, waistcoat, shirt and under-vest and gives him a warm wet cloth to hold against the wound while he washes his hands and disinfects everything in the kit. Then he drags Tony’s workbench stool over to the chair and does his best impression of a field medic.

The wound, once cleaned, is an ugly one, but not the worst he’s ever seen, or even the worst he’s worked on. He tries to be both quick and careful, but can generally only manage one or the other in a single moment. His bedside manner leaves something to be desired, Tony tells him between clenched-teeth, white-knuckled silences and hissed curses. Steve returns that Tony is far from the best patient he’s ever helped and he really, really needs to stop flinching. Steve can get a blindfold for him if necessary. Oh, is this _that_ sort of doctoring, Tony asks on a half-breath that might be a laugh, and then he yelps.

The bullet pings when it hits the tray, loud in the silence between them. 

Steve doesn’t ask if Tony shot back, or where his gun is. Doesn’t ask the burning questions rising in his throat of _who did this_ in his own territory, and he clamps down on the simmering need to make sure they never do anything like this again. Later. When Tony’s well he’ll take a full accounting and schedule patrols and escorts. There’s nothing useful he can do for that now. When Tony’s well.

He takes long, slow breaths and lets himself be gentler in the clean-up. His shoulders are cramping, and his hands ache, but he keeps his touch light and soothing. By the time he gets Tony’s shoulder bandaged and his wrist splinted and his scrapes wiped down with a fresh wet cloth, Tony’s drooping where he sits. 

He’s also still shivering, and his skin is hotter to the touch. Which they both should have expected; a dirty handkerchief, a long walk and a longer ride are hardly ideal conditions for healing. Steve gives up on the notion of getting proper sleep tonight. At least the bleeding’s all but stopped. He’ll take what victories he can. He makes another measure of willow bark tea and wraps Tony in a blanket, tucking it carefully around his shoulders and neck. Tony leans into his touch, just slightly, and Steve lets his hands linger.

“No sleeping until you finish that,” he says of the tea, and Tony quips about mother-henning just a little too slowly. Steve puts another log on the fire and refills the water kettle and tries not to let his worries run away with him. Small steps. Useful measures. They’ll need more blankets, and Tony will rest more comfortably in a proper bed.

“Where are your winter layers?” 

“Attic.” Tony shifts like he might try to stand. “I can—”

“No you don’t.” Steve presses his hand to Tony’s knee. “Stay where you are.”

“It’s really not—”

“Let me take care of you, Tony.,” Steve’s voice cracks and he cuts himself off. He takes a breath, then another. Tony’s eyes widen, and he goes very still.

“You’re in no shape to climb a ladder,” Steve says, softer. “And if you try, you might start yourself bleeding again. So please. Let me do this.”

“Okay,” Tony says. He sinks back in the chair. “Okay.”

The cedar chest is easy to find, and the winter-weight blankets and flannel sheets inside are still sound and whole. A second, longer cedar box holds a cot-bed mattress and two down-stuffed pillows. He carries it all back down to the main floor and piles it on the stick-and-rope-frame bed and then drags the whole thing out in front of the fire.

Tony eyes it.

“I don’t suppose _you’re_ taking the bed?” he asks. “I should really stay somewhat upright, so—”

“I’m taking the chair,” Steve tells him as he arranges the bedding. “You’re getting as close to a real night’s sleep as you can.”

Tony doesn’t argue again. Not even when this means he has to get up, wincing, and move over, or when Steve spends entirely too long checking and double checking that no draft will be able to sneak under the layers of wool and down and cotton to give him a chill overnight.

When he’s satisfied that Tony’s as comfortable as he can be, propped up on pillows, tea finished and blankets draped up to his neck, Steve lets himself relax a little. He pours himself a whiskey and slumps into the chair to drink it. After a few minutes he puts his feet up on the side table, closer to the flames. 

Tony offers him a wan smile, and Steve feels some rigid, icy fear that’s been needling at his insides break and melt away. He reaches across the gap between them and strokes his first two fingers over the back of Tony’s uninjured hand. Tony’s throat works, but he doesn’t say anything. He turns his hand over to catch Steve’s fingers and squeezes.

Steve watches his face in the flickering firelight and tries not to think about how close he got to not having this. How many times everything could have gone wrong, just in the last few hours. 

When Tony does speak, his voice is thin and hoarse.

“Thanks for the rescue,” he says. “Sorry you’re stuck here.”

Steve stands and kisses Tony’s forehead, then steadies himself on the edge of the bed frame to press their foreheads together, just to feel Tony’s breath on his face.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I don’t want to be anywhere else.”


End file.
